


My Star is Fading

by solitary_thrush



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heartbreaking, Hurt/Comfort, Medical stuff, Poor Will, Sickfic, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitary_thrush/pseuds/solitary_thrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of what ought to be many post-ep fills for "Roti" (please write these fics, please, please). Picks up at the gunshot and fills until the brief shot in the hospital. Alana's POV. Hurt/comfort and poor Will heavy because that's all I write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't keep my paws off of this one, not when they make poor Will so sick. First go at Alana's POV. Let me know how it works.

_Come on, oh my star is fading_  
 _And I see no chance of release_  
 _And I know I'm dead on the surface_  
 _But I am screaming underneath_

\- Coldplay, "Amsterdam"

The gunshot startles Alana Bloom, though perhaps it shouldn’t. Agent Kinz, her protective custody, responds by calling in the gunshot and telling her to stay put as he draws his gun and leaves the room. But she’s seen that it’s Will outside, that Will shot Abel Gideon, that Will collapsed into the snow. No way is she staying put.

Alana doesn’t bother to grab a coat or any sort of protection against the cold as she rushes through the door and into the snow. Kinz is evaluating Gideon, so she kneels next to Will. He’s unconscious, his face burning hot when she touches his cheek. He’s sweaty despite the patina of cold layered over the heat of his body. Her mind goes immediately to his visit after class and the fever she felt then in his cheek. Whatever he has, it’s moved quickly – and it’s not stress, no matter how much Will likes to deflect.

No. She won’t analyze him. Not now, not ever.

Instead, her medical training kicks in and she checks his pulse – weak and far too rapid – and bends down to listen to his breathing – short, harsh gasps but nothing labored. It could be as simple as the flu, but Will is so complex that he may well repel ordinary microbes. Nothing is simple with him. Certainly not this: shooting Gideon and passing out in the snow behind her house.

The part of her that wants to smack Will for his well-intentioned but misguided heroism – and that’s what it is, tracking Gideon alone in the snow to her house despite illness so obvious even he couldn’t have missed it – is drowned out by alarm. Will doesn’t respond when she taps on his cheek and calls his name. Not a groan. Not even so much as a whimper or a twitch.

The hair on his head is wet and starting to stiffen and freeze in the 20 degree air. Alana moves from his side to his head and lifts it into her lap so she can protect it from the cold. She can’t deny that having his head in her lap where she can stroke his hair and keep him warm makes her feel better, too. She wipes the sweat from his face before it can freeze.

“You called two ambulances, didn’t you?” she barks at Kinz.

“Yes,” he replies, not looking up from the hand he has on Gideon’s gunshot wound.

How did Will find Gideon in the first place? She doesn’t see a car. Did Will walk here? How long has he been in the cold with this fever? She pinches the skin on his elegant hand and frowns at the result. The cold interferes, but even when she takes it into account, Will is still awfully dehydrated.

And awfully driven. Of course. That’s one of the qualities she finds attractive in him. He’s relentless. And yet he’s reigned that impulse in since he kissed her last month. He directed it instead at Gideon. Because of her.

Guilt threatens to overwhelm her. She pushes it back. Now is not the time.

Where the hell is that ambulance?

The fact that she can’t bring Will around sends her mind to the many scans she’s seen of brain damage. Will is so febrile that some damage may be inevitable. She hopes both ambulances arrive together. She’s prepared to fight Kinz if he thinks Gideon should go first.

“How bad is he?” she asks.

“Chest wound,” Kinz answers. “He’s bleeding pretty badly. Immediate evacuation is best.”

“This is Will Graham,” she says, her eyes fiery even though Kinz doesn’t look up. “He’s a special agent. He’s got a high fever and I can’t rouse him. I’m worried about brain damage.”

She locks eyes with Kinz and it’s decided: Will goes first.

The wail of the sirens in the distance sends a wave of relief through her. She bends down so she can speak into Will’s ear. “You’ll be okay, Will,” she says. “Just hang on.”

She identifies herself as an MD and barks orders at the ambulance crew as soon as they’re within shouting distance. Getting Will out of the cold and onto the truck is the first priority. She’s grateful when they don’t question her. She cradles Will’s head as they lift him onto the gurney. He’s still disturbingly unresponsive.

Once inside the truck, she gloves up and helps the EMT remove Will’s jacket and shirts. She starts an IV while the EMT assesses his airway and breathing. His arm is slippery with sweat and his veins have receded so deeply due to dehydration that he’s hard to stick. God, he’s ill.

She never wants to cause him pain, but in this case, she has to. She whispers as apology as she runs her knuckles roughly along his sternum to check his responsiveness. His head jerks and an inarticulate, too-weak cry issues from his mouth, but he doesn’t wake. This is very bad.

“105.3,” the EMT says.

Shit.

She quickly administers the hefty dose of acetaminophen the EMT hands her. Between it and the fluids, his temperature should start to drop soon. But soon is not soon enough. Now would be better. Five minutes ago would be better still.

The EMT is attaching leads to Will’s chest when his entire body goes rigid. The EMT starts counting. At twenty-two seconds, Will’s head and arms jerk from side to side. It’s over in six more seconds and Will relaxes with an unconscious sigh, but adrenaline still scorches her veins.

Seizure. _Shit._

“Tonic-clonic,” the EMT says.

“Tonic-myoclonic,” Alana corrects. Not that it’s much better.

“How much time?” she asks.

The EMT calls to his partner driving the truck. “Five minutes or less,” is the answer.

And so for five interminable minutes, Alana holds Will’s hand and fights the impulse to kiss his cheek and hold him. She’s not some weeping Pollyanna, but seeing him like this slashes her to her core. He’d been trying to protect her. Because that’s what he does. For a man who can’t get out of his own head, he has remarkably little regard for himself. It’s something he needs to work on. She can’t be with someone who doesn’t care about himself because she’d end up caring for them both.

As though she doesn’t do that already.

She stays close as they enter the Emergency Department. She doesn’t bother to correct the personnel who call her Mrs. Graham, though she should. She really should.

She does leave the room when they start stripping his clothes off, though. She doesn’t want this to be the first time she sees him naked. She wants to think of him as a person, not a body, so she retreats to the cell phone area and calls Jack.

She’s furious when she learns that Will was with him when they raided the observatory.

“Obviously, he didn’t listen when I told him to stay behind,” Jack says tersely.

“You told him to stay behind because you knew he was sick?”

“Yes and no,” Jack answers. “Yes, I knew he was sick. I didn’t know he was _that_ sick. I thought also that he didn’t need to see this one. We knew who did it.”

“Then why have him there at all?” she hisses angrily. It won’t do to yell in this place.

“Because we didn’t know what we’d find.” That Jack sounds not even a little contrite increases her fury. “I might have needed him.”

“ _Might have_? He had a seizure in the ambulance, Jack. It’s too early to tell if there’s any damage, but there could be.”

Jack remains nonplussed. “Will is resilient, Alana.”

“Will is human.” _Breakable_.

She hears Jack’s silence and knows he’s wearing that chastised expression that means he takes her point but isn’t going to change his ways. She hangs up before she can say something she’ll regret.

When she returns, Will looks far too sick and helpless in the pale green gown that worsens his pallor. The phlebotomist leaves with tubes of blood and Alana takes her place next to Will again, holding his hand and wishing she could do more.

His temperature has dropped to 103.4 where it remains stubbornly – because he’s nothing if not stubborn, even when he’s unconscious – for twenty more minutes before he gets another dose of anti-pyretic. He’s more responsive when a nurse takes knuckles to his sternum again. His harsh cry is stronger and he opens his eyes.

“Will?”

His eyes roll around his head and try to fix on her, but he doesn’t have much control over them. She sees him making an effort, but it’s a weak one. He’s exhausted and falls quickly into unconsciousness. She touches his cheek and nurtures the anger she has at Jack for taking Will to the crime scene. It’s the only thing stopping the avalanche of worry from crashing down and burying her.

By the time a room is ready for him, his temperature is down to 101.2. His blood work indicates a serious infection but the cause remains a mystery. Some of the tests will take a few hours.

So she sits and waits and holds his hand and thinks. Would Gideon have tried to kill her? Certainly. He’s more than capable of incapacitating Kinz and doing whatever he wanted with her. It’s not stretch to say that Will saved her life.

When she lets that thought fully manifest, it comes with tears. She swipes angrily at them and tells herself that it wasn’t about her. Will would have done this for anyone. It’s just who he is.

But she knows that isn’t the whole truth.

Before she can begin arguing with herself, Hannibal appears in the doorway.

She lets go of Will’s hand and joins Hannibal in the doorway so their conversation won’t disturb Will.

“He hasn’t regained consciousness yet?” Hannibal asks in a hushed tone.

“No,” Alana answers.

“He may be confused when he does.” At her questioning look, Hannibal continues, “He came to see me. He was – very ill. Hallucinating. Unable to trust his perceptions.”

She doesn’t want to be angry with Hannibal, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, she’s too tired to be so much as properly annoyed, so she settles for miffed. “And you didn’t take him to the hospital?”

“I planned to do that,” Hannibal answers. “I made the mistake of leaving the room to call Jack first, as Will had come to me from a crime scene. He was gone when I came back. He took my car. I’m not sure how he got away, frankly. I regret leaving him alone.”

She sighs, deflated. Of course Hannibal was going to do the right thing. She knows better than to doubt him. “Who knows what was going on his head,” she says.

Hannibal inclines his head in agreement. “I must go,” he says. “If he wakes while you’re here, would you tell him that I’ll stop by in the morning with something other than atrocious hospital food for him to eat?”

Now she smiles genuinely. “Sure.”

Hannibal returns her smile and takes his leave. Will is still peaceful when she settles in next to him again. He seems to be sleeping rather than unconscious, and he’s finally stopped sweating. His color is approaching a healthy shade, too.  

She takes his hand again and watches him sleep. She doesn’t notice when her head begins to droop and soon she, too, is asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_And true love waits_  
 _In haunted attics_  
 _And true love lives_  
 _On lollipops and crisps_  
  
 _Just don't leave_  
 _Don't leave_

\- Radiohead, “True Love Waits”

It could be ten minutes or a few hours later when she wakes to see Will thrashing on the bed, his eyes shuttling wildly back and forth beneath their lids. _Seizure_ is all she can think, and she's about to get a nurse when the eye movement tells her it’s not a seizure but a nightmare.

Her face falls as she watches him struggle. Though she doesn’t specialize in sleep disorders, she’s observed her share of nightmares. This one is so much worse than any she’s ever seen. His sharp, terrified gasps fill the room as he claws ineffectively at the bed. His muscles shake with strain – and no wonder: the heart monitor reads 156. His color is gone; he’s not just pale but nearly grey. His hair, which had finally dried and fluffed up before she fell asleep, is matted to his head again. Large patches of sweat soak the gown and make his skin shine in the soft light of the lamp on the bedside table. Whatever he’s fighting, it has him firmly in its grasp and it’s not letting go.

God, are they all this bad?

She knows that what he does affects every aspect of his life, but to see him so tormented in person – and to know that he does this by himself usually, surrounded by dogs, on that bed he keeps in his living room where he’s all alone – breaks her heart. She has to stop the litany of diagnoses and treatments that run through her mind, but it hurts so much to feel for him without trying to help. Maybe she’ll let herself think like a doctor just a little. Just so it isn’t so hard to bear.

She says his name but he doesn’t respond. A nurse comes in, summoned by the heart monitor, and stands aside when Alana explains that Will suffers from frequent nightmares. Word that she’s not just a doctor but also a bit of a pit bull must have gotten around. She still hasn’t corrected their “Mrs. Graham”s either.

“Will,” she says again, bending down so he can hear her, “you’re okay. You’re dreaming.”

She has to stop herself from touching him. He’s too volatile, too immersed in the dream. It’s too risky for them both. She’d quirk a wry smile at that painful irony if she weren’t so sick with worry.

“You’re in the hospital,” she soothes. “You’re sick. You have a fever. But you’ll be okay. Can you wake up for me?”

Nothing. Will fights his demons long enough for Alana to acknowledge that the fever and the trauma of shooting Gideon are probably making it worse – and then for her thoughts turn again to brain damage. The heat radiating from his body is palpable. He’s going to hurt himself, if he hasn’t already.

She’s ready to intervene more forcefully when Will’s eyes fly open and dart wildly around the room. The catch on her and stop, and she sees the Will she knows behind them. His presence is a huge relief.  

“Hi,” she says with a smile. “You’re in the hospital.”

Will just stares, still hyperventilating, obviously confused. Alana remembers Hannibal's warning.

“Do you know who you are?” she asks tentatively, trying not to project her fears and failing miserably.

Will swallows as his breathing slows. He looks from her to the nurse and back.

“My name is Will Graham,” he says in a gravelly voice. He sounds scripted but seems certain.

“Yes, good,” she says with a big smile. “Would you like some water?”

He nods briefly, the disorientation in his eyes shaping itself into questions as he brings a hand up to rub them like they’re bothering him. Headache? Or is he just tired? Hard to tell. Even from more than a foot away, he’s like a furnace. Unlike earlier in the day when he’d had a fever but hidden it well, he’s openly tired and worn now. She wants to steal him away from this world to a place where he won’t be shadowed by violence so he can recover in peace.

Will accepts a plastic cup from the nurse and props himself up on his elbows to drink. He stares at her, trying to put the pieces together. The intensity she sees in his eyes is more than just fascinating: it’s frightening.

She lets none of this show on her face. He doesn’t need to see it.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks.

Will studies her for a moment as he drinks, then hands the cup back to the nurse and lies down. No one she’s cared for as she cares for Will has ever been as vulnerable as Will is now: not just seriously ill but unraveling like a cartoon mummy. Whether there’s a possessed ghost or thin air beneath remains to be seen, but one thing is clear. He needs a connection to another person.

She takes his hand.

Will glances down at their hands in surprise and disbelief, as though no one has held his hand before, and her heart breaks a little more.

“I remember you,” he says. There’s such feeling behind his eyes. Such raw want and need, tempered only by uncertainty and doubt. His hand squeezes hers. She squeezes back without hesitation. They exchange a smile that’s warm and genuine and human – and interrupted by the nurse putting a thermometer in Will’s ear, a move which earns Will’s annoyance. Reality always intrudes.

When it beeps, Alana looks at the nurse expectantly. “102.8,” she reports.

Will seems not to care, his eyes fixed on Alana. He’s doing that thing where he doesn’t realize he’s staring.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

He shoots another annoyed glance at the nurse, who’s inflating a blood pressure cuff on his arm, before looking back to Alana. His eyes have softened again. He seems happy to see her, as though he got something he desperately wanted.

“Tired,” he answers, and he looks it. The nightmare drew on energy reserves he doesn’t have.

“Any dizziness or nausea?” she asks, pressing on so that he won’t feel self-conscious.

Will shakes his head a fraction.

“Does anything hurt?”

“No,” he answers. “Well, yes. I’ve got a headache.” He flinches at the word, as though mentioning it makes it worse. “But I always have a headache.”

“Did you have a sore throat earlier?” Alana asks, still looking for answers. “Or muscle aches?”

He shakes his head again and rubs his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

She offers a smile that she doesn’t feel. “You seem fine.”

He catches her tone and narrows his eyes. “So, they don’t know what’s wrong with me?” he asks.

His tone betrays such a complex array of emotions that she could try to take it apart for weeks and still not find everything. He’s apprehensive and more doubtful than hopeful, but the glint of hope that does break through makes her want an answer even more than she already did. They both look expectantly at the nurse.

“You have an infection,” the nurse answers as she takes notes on his chart. “We’re still waiting on some test results to determine the cause. The doctor will be in soon to examine you.”

Will doesn’t like that answer, but he doesn’t say anything else until the nurse leaves. He relaxes visibly once she’s gone. Alana is pleased that Will can relax around her, that she’s one of the few people he trusts. His hand slackens in hers, then tightens again when he notices his loose grip.

He looks down at their hands again and disentangles his to wipe it on the blanket. “Sorry about the sweat,” he apologizes with the tiniest of self-effacing, self-conscious smiles.

Alana retrieves paper towels from the bathroom. When she returns, he’s already removed the gown, careful to keep the blanket pulled up to his stomach, and has balled it up so he can dry his arms, chest, and face. He tosses it toward the medical waste bin and the gesture is so normal that she’s cheered to see it. That he’s coordinated enough to do that bodes well. He accepts the paper towels and dabs at his hair.

He’s made a little progress when the nurse returns with an orderly and fresh, folded linens. Alana turns her back while they help Will into a new gown and then into the chair she’d occupied while they change the sheets. She pulls up another chair so she can sit next to him.

Will’s eyes drift around the room again. He’s more with it than a person as sick as he is should be, which goes a long way toward easing her fears about brain damage.

“What else do you remember?” she asks. She doesn’t want to press him, but talking will help. Better to talk with a friend first than to have to narrate his version of events for the first time to someone like Jack who’ll be less patient with him.

Will blinks rapidly for a moment, searching his memory, then sighs and looks away.

“I was with Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Outside your house. I don’t know what he was doing there, but he wanted to hurt you and – ”

His face scrunches up with a mix of fear and uncertainty; his eyes are so terribly haunted. “I shot him.” 

He looks back at her, trying to blink the memories away. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” Alana says. So, not only was his brain frying when he shot Gideon, but he was hallucinating? And it was Hobbs, who represents a serious and apparently abiding trauma, Will thought he shot? Hannibal has his work cut out for him. She’s confident he can help Will – if anyone can, it’s Hannibal – but this mental illness is as serious and damaging as a 105 degree fever.

“Will, you shot Abel Gideon,” Alana says carefully.

He doesn’t look surprised by that, but his expression is distinctly troubled.

“Gideon,” he repeats vacantly.

So he had some sense of what was happening. But still…

“Hannibal said you might be confused,” Alana relays, using the voice she’d use to help a disturbed patient feel comfortable and safe. He’s closer to a patient now than he is to her Will. 

“He said you were hallucinating.”

“Hannibal?” Will echoes. She sees him searching his memory again. “I remember going to his house, but… it’s blurry. Warped.”

He presses his free hand to his eyes again. Although he’s obviously bothered by this news, he’s taking it well overall. Well enough for her to wonder how often this has happened to him lately.

The nurse and orderlies leave and Will slowly climbs back into bed, clearly exhausted and in desperate need of more rest. He pulls the clean blanket up to his chest and shivers.

Alana settles into the chair next to the bed again and fights the impulse to brush his hair back from his forehead. Instead, she takes his hand again.

“You had a dangerously high fever,” she says. “It’s amazing that you were able to do what you did, and not the least bit surprising that you don’t remember all of it.”

Will’s face darkens. “He was going to hurt you,” Will says adamantly, as though she needs to be convinced.

She can’t account for his mood swing. It’s one more thing she’ll hide her worry about.

“He probably would have,” Alana acknowledges. “Thank you for stopping him.”

Will nods and smiles and closes his eyes with a contented expression as though that was all he ever wanted to hear.

It pierces her heart to see him like this. He may have saved her at great risk to himself, but she can’t let that get in the way of his obvious and lingering instability. That point must remain non-negotiable. But if anyone can help him find stability, it’s Hannibal – which reminds her.

“Hannibal stopped by,” she says. “He said he’ll bring breakfast for you in the morning. I’m jealous.”

He offers a little smile, but doesn’t open his eyes. He looks ready to drift off again. Good. Sleep is best for him right now. But he does need to be examined; the sooner the better so he can rest without interruption.

“I’m going to go find your doctor,” she says and makes a move to release his hand.

His hand grips hers tightly and his eyes fly open. “No, stay.” 

His eyes cling to hers desperately as though she’s the only thing keeping him together. God, he’s so hurt. She has to fight hard not to hug him, not to impart some modicum of stability to him. Holding his hand is no way to combat the depths of his pain and terror. But it’s not fair to either of them for her to keep touching him when she can’t be with him yet.

Will realizes what he’s doing and takes a mental step back. He’s a gentleman, after a fashion – another of his saving graces.

“I mean, thank you for staying,” he says in a small voice. “Earlier.” He releases her hand and looks over at the wall.

Her heart constricts. She takes his hand back and gives it another reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t squeeze back this time, receding into himself.

“It’s okay,” she says warmly. “I’ll stay. They know you’re awake. They’ll be in here to bother you soon enough.”

He nods briefly and his lips quirk in a smile. She sees a thought come to him and his smile fade. His worried gaze searches her face.

“You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, placing her other hand on his. “You stopped him.”

Will’s relief fills up the room as the tension drains from him. “Good,” he says and closes his eyes.  

The doctor arrives before Will has a chance fall asleep. Alana releases his hand and stands up so she’ll be out of the way. His eyes track her and he scowls when the doctor’s questions and physical examination demand his attention. Alana keeps her eyes trained on the doctor, evaluating her examination of Will, and tries to remain clinical. He passes the neurological exam. No obvious brain damage. Thank God.

Will is irritable, though, and answers questions in as few words as possible. He feels exposed, perhaps even violated by the exam, which he sees as an intrusion rather than a doctor trying to diagnose him. Given his history of being poked and prodded by psychiatrists, it’s no surprise that he doesn’t appreciate medical evaluations.

“I’m not seeing anything abnormal, Mr. Graham,” the doctor says after she finishes the exam.

“So you still don’t know what’s wrong with me?” Will growls, his voice rising with anger.

“We’ll keep looking,” she answers. “We’re waiting on some bacterial cultures, too.” She flips through his chart. “I see you had two MRIs last week… for headaches and hallucinations.”

Will presses his hand against his eyes again. “They didn’t find anything,” Will mutters, as though it’s his own fault.

“We’ll take another look at the images,” she says.

“You think they’re related?” Will asks, his eyes suddenly sharp with interest.

“I can’t say yet,” she answers. Will falls back into frustration. “Don’t worry, Mr. Graham,” she says. “We’ll get an answer for you.”

Will doesn’t look like he believes her. He glares at her back as she leaves the room. Alana hasn’t asked for elaboration on the MRIs from anyone who’s mentioned them to her and she doesn’t ask now. Will is clearly upset by the topic. No physiological problems to explain his headaches and hallucinations means it’s mental illness. Which is probably why Will won’t meet her eyes now.

“They’ll find out what’s causing this,” she says.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Will mumbles. His eyes are drooping, either from exhaustion catching up with him or because he’s uncomfortable with the subject. Either way, he does need to sleep.

And he needs to feel like someone supports him unconditionally, so, before she can think better of it, she places her free hand on his cheek and leans in to kiss his other cheek lightly. He turns his head and she pulls back a little because she can see how badly he wants to kiss her. He stares at her lips and she ducks her head to catch his eyes with her own. _Yes,_ she tries to convey, _eventually, but not now._

“You’ll be okay, Will,” she says and holds his gaze until he nods almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t need to believe that himself; he just needs to know that someone’s in his corner. “Thank you – for what you did tonight. For saving me.”

She removes her hand from his cheek and pulls their clasped hands up to kiss his hand briefly. He's dumbfounded, but that’s better than dejected.

“Maybe I can have a kiss when I’m not sick?” he asks in that awkward tone she wants to imbue with confidence. God, she wants to kiss him now, sick or not. But that isn’t the way to do this.

“Maybe,” she says and smiles.

He nods his understanding, making the same sad face he did when she rejected him the first time, but he seems to realize that this isn’t easy for her, either.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She kisses his hand again and lets it go. He nods and closes his eyes as she turns off the lamp. She doesn’t linger to see whether he falls asleep though she very much wants to.

The cab ride home isn’t long. Yellow crime scene tape like streamers still cordons off her yard, marking the violence and insanity that threatened it. That Will stopped. The cabbie is considerate enough to ask if she wants to go somewhere else. She tips him well and returns to her empty house. She can see why Will keeps dogs. She could use some companionship right now. Instead, she’s trapped inside her own head.

It’s probably pointless to try to go to bed now, but the routine of getting ready for bed makes her feel better. She can’t stop thinking everything Will has been through in the past twenty four hours, though. She’s going to go to Jack in the morning and make some demands on his behalf – demands that she thinks the situation itself makes, but that Jack won’t necessarily see. She’ll have to pick her words and her tone carefully or Jack might think she’s speaking not as Will’s friend but as something more than that, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to be taken less seriously because of a relationship she isn’t even in yet.

A relationship that, at this rate, may never happen.

She thinks of Will, alone and sick and uncertain or even scared, and she hugs the spare pillow tightly, pouring all of her emotions into it as though it’s him. Oh, how she would hold him like he’s the most precious thing in the world if he were here. How she would kiss the stubble on his cheeks and run her fingers through his hair and press him to her until his fears quieted and he knew he was not just loved but cherished. How it hurts that she can’t do any of those things.

When her alarm sounds in the morning, Alana is still awake, still hugging the pillow, still staring at the empty space he would fill with his wonderful presence if he were here.

~End~


End file.
